


Bentley

by Lunasong365



Series: Luna's GO Poetry [6]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Armageddon, Gen, Poetry, Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 20:31:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4493694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunasong365/pseuds/Lunasong365
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>A street of light will screem, the black chariot of the Serpente will flayme, and a Queene wille sing quickfilveres songes no moar.</i> </p><p>It’s poetry! It’s prose! It’s a fitting tribute to an oft-unsung hero of the Almost-Apocalypse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bentley

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is the combination of two thoughts - I wanted to write something with the upcoming anniversary of the Almost-Apocalypse in mind, and I am currently studying Shakespeare's _The Tempest_ in prep to fully enjoy an upcoming community production of the play (ty irisbleufic for inspiring me to attend! I wouldn't have, but you...). The Bentley is based in the spirit of Ariel - sexless, affectionate, full of grace; playful in obedience to its Master. The final line of Bentley's poem belongs to William S.

O Master – I consider thee a friend.  
We’ve traveled verily so long together.  
Thy bidding I have followed to the letter  
Whilst adding mine own touches here and there.  
You only have to speak and I obey.  
You wave thy hand; I follow thy command.  
My trust in thee is full and justified.  
For not a scratch or dent has marked my body  
No, never once - in all my sixty years.  
And thou hast never fouled mine tank with petrol  
(well just that once – in truth I understand).

Now on this day I full sense thy discomfort.  
The bookshop was in flames, the angel gone.  
Wet and steaming, face blackened by ashes  
You stumbled from the shop holding a book.  
Thine eyes! Thy fearsome glare was serpentine.  
I try to comfort thee in seats of leather.  
Sit back – I’ll do the driving whilst you read.  
I changeth my direction at thy thought.

O Master! Prithee help me understand  
My treatment when thou dost reclaim the wheel.  
‘Tis brutal! Never once have I made contact  
In so violent a sort with mine own kind.  
Oh, Pain! My beauteous looks are now fair sullied,  
And body parts I’m shedding in the road.

Now at this time, you put me to the test,  
For in combustion, I will not survive.  
If I resist, it’s ‘cause in this I’m selfish:  
I do not wish to see our union end.  
But lo, if fire serves thy purpose true  
I will in fire satisfy thy cause.  
As flaming chariot I shall carry thee  
To Tadfield; though it strain me to the limit!  
I sense thy will is holding me together.

Now that we have reached our destination,  
I pray thee let me rest along this road.  
For all my parts can’t be put back together;  
A smoking heap of wreckage I’ll remain.  
And when thy mission here is full complete,  
Remember I have done thee worthy service.

*

After the International Express delivery driver had completed the paperwork, collected the three packages, and driven away, Crowley stood and reached an unsteady hand down to Aziraphale. “Come on. I’ll drive us back to London.” As Aziraphale allowed himself to be pulled up, Crowley had a second thought. He stooped down, picked up the tyre iron, and tossed it in the back of the Jeep. 

“I’m saving that,” he explained to Aziraphale, “in case I ever need it again.” That wasn’t the real reason, but Aziraphale had never believed the demon to be capable of sentimentality, and Crowley didn’t feel the need to explain himself further now.

As the surprising, but familiar strains of Handel’s _Water Music_ wafted over the military vehicle, Crowley steered it down the road through the darkness toward the front gate of the air base. As they approached, Crowley glanced to his right and noticed the still-smouldering pile of scorched metal, rubber, and leather that had once been the Bentley strewn like a dismembered carcass along the side of the road. His heart sunk and he braked to a stop.

“Give me a minute,” he said to Aziraphale and clambered out of the Jeep. Aziraphale looked over toward the direction Crowley headed and saw the wreckage. _Oh, dear,_ he thought. _That is a bit gone beyond a dimple and a scratch._

Crowley walked over to what was left of the Bentley with his hands in his pockets and an inscrutable expression on his face. He circled behind the remains of the boot, toed a mangled wheel rim that had broken free of the rear hub assembly, and peered inside what had once been the passenger side. The blackened seat was covered in flaked ash, and Crowley realised he was gazing at the cremains of _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter._ He looked across the compartment to the driver’s seat and through the shattered window to see Aziraphale sympathetically watching him from the Jeep. 

Crowley straightened and patted the remaining flap of the blistered bonnet lovingly, and the car seemed to respond with a sigh. It settled just a few more inches toward the ground.

“Thanks,” Crowley whispered to the Bentley before he turned to walk away and rejoin Aziraphale. “Thanks for **everything.** ”


End file.
